You Are What You Eat
by JennaEf
Summary: A sequel to What Words Cannot Say. This is a story about Sherlock and John's developing relationship, told with the participation of food. And there's also Mystrade along the way... Disclamer: as usual.
1. A Bet

**This story is a sequel to "What Words Cannot Say" and takes place shortly after the conversation in the Epilogue.**

**As always, a huge thanks to my beta, Pilikia18. And another 'thank you' goes to Yeedle for the suggestion about food :)  
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John was pretty sure that the moment he will be finally released from the hospital, its medical staff would breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The ex-army doctor couldn't really blame them: dealing with a bored Sherlock Holmes could be quite hazardous, particularly for unprepared people.

Yet, in spite of the boredom, Sherlock was hell-bent on taking care of his recently acquired significant other – in his own extravagant ways, of course.

The first step of that ingenious plan had Sherlock barely leaving John's hospital room during the first two days after John's operation.

On the third day the ex-army medic managed to persuade his flatmate to go home and take a few hours of quality rest; or, at least, take a shower and change his clothes. As it turned out, Sherlock agreed only to the latter, because an hour and a half later he was again sitting in the chair at John's bedside while happily feeding him Mrs. Hudson's homemade apple crumble.

Surprised by Sherlock's unusual behaviour, the blond doctor accepted two pieces of pie from Sherlock's hands and even managed to eat them before his brain caught up with reality. A slight frown creased his forehead.

The younger man's hand with the third piece of crumble froze in mid-movement and he raised an eyebrow. "Is something wrong, John?"

"No," the older man said carefully. "It's just a little... strange, I guess."

Sherlock put the pie back on a plate. "What is?"

"Well, usually it's ME trying to feed YOU, so..."

The dark-haired man grinned. "Well, that was BEFORE you started showering me with flowers..."

"No need to exaggerate, Sherlock," John interrupted, suppressing a smile.

"I'm merely stating a fact," Sherlock contradicted, picking up the plate again. "More pie?"

John chuckled and reached for the third piece of crumble. "That was lame, Sherlock, especially for you. Oh, by the way: is there any chance you'd try some? It's delicious."

Smiling mischievously, the detective closed his slender fingers around John's wrist, effectively holding the doctor's hand with the pie in place, and then slowly leaned forward and took a small bite.

John's throat suddenly felt very dry, and he swallowed convulsively. "Sherlock, what... what are you doing?"

Sherlock proceeded to chew and swallow; then, licking his lips, looked innocently at John. "What does it look like, John?"

"I..," the doctor began, only to be interrupted by the knock on the door.

Sherlock quickly let go of his wrist, thrust the plate into his hands and leaned back in his chair.

"Later, John," the younger man whispered. And then, much louder: "Come in!"

The door opened and Lestrade stepped into the room, carrying a paper bag and a folder with documents. Sherlock's eyes immediately zeroed in on said folder and John smiled slightly, recognising his friend's expression of eager anticipation.

That expression meant that John might possibly get some quality rest while Sherlock was away solving a case for the DI.

"Good afternoon, Inspector," John greeted warmly, indicating the second chair near his bed. "Bringing good news for Sherlock, I see?"

Lestrade took a seat on Sherlock's right and placed the paper bag on the bedside table. "Good evening, John, Sherlock. Yes, you're right John, but I have something for you too."

Sherlock, who started sniffing the air as soon as Lestrade sat down, chose this moment to interrupt. "Scones. Raspberry and vanilla... What have you got, Lestrade?"

"A locked room case. Sorry, how did you...?" Lestrade began but, seeing a mischievous glint in Sherlock's eyes, stopped abruptly. "Never mind."

The detective tapped the side of his nose, smiled wickedly and got to his feet. "It's obvious. Where?"

"Old Gloucester Street, Camden," Lestrade rolled his eyes as Sherlock breezed out of the room. "Sorry, John."

"That's okay, I could use a few hours of rest. Just keep an eye on him for me, will you?"

"Sure," the DI pushed himself up. "Get well, John."

Sherlock stuck his head back into the room. "Did you fall asleep in there, Lestrade?"

The police inspector chose not to acknowledge this obvious jab and calmly headed for the door, giving John a little 'good-bye' wave on the way out.

"Good bye, Inspector. Hope to see you soon!" John called out in return. As soon as he was alone in the room, he marvelled slightly at the DI's reaction to Sherlock's remark about scones. Lestrade was obviously hiding something, and Sherlock figured it out in an instant, if the inspector's hurried attempt to finish the conversation was anything to go by. But John was drawing a complete blank as to what exactly it was, so he decided to wait for Sherlock to return and then simply ask him about it.

The scones were absolutely delicious, and John took his time savouring each one of them – not before buzzing for a nurse and asking politely for a cup of tea, of course.

Sherlock returned an hour later and immediately started pacing the room, muttering in irritation about modern criminals not having an ounce of imagination and Lestrade being particularly slow in coming to the right conclusions.

That, in turn, prompted John to ask the question that was occupying his mind.

"What was it about your gesture that got Lestrade all flustered?" the doctor asked with curiosity, following Sherlock's swift movements with his eyes.

The dark-haired man stopped abruptly, turning to face his friend and raising an eyebrow. "Which one?"

John repeated the gesture, tapping the side of his nose, and a small smile curved Sherlock's lips.

"Lestrade has a secret, John; one he isn't comfortable with yet," the detective explained cryptically. "Especially because it involves my brother."

The blond man frowned, a puzzled expression appearing on his face. "What secret are you talking about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's steely eyes sparkled with amusement. "I'm surprised you didn't notice it yet, John; the signs are painfully obvious. Lestrade is romantically involved with my dear brother."

For a few moments, John just opened and closed his mouth, reminding Sherlock of a beached fish. Then the good doctor found his voice again.

"You can't be serious!" he breathed out, eyes wide with disbelief.

Sherlock smiled indulgently. "On the contrary, John. You should've noticed that Mycroft appears on the crime scenes more often recently. And Lestrade smells differently from time to time, although I doubt he realises that. Our Detective Inspector is quite fond of his deodorant, so the only occasion when he starts to smell a different way is when he comes in a close contact with the owner of a different one".

"And you're positive said smell belongs to your brother?" John asked, still struggling to comprehend what Sherlock was so calmly telling him.

"Absolutely," Sherlock nodded for emphasis. "And finally, the scones, John. These ones are Mycroft's favourites."

"I still can't believe..."

"Are you willing to bet on it, John?" Sherlock interrupted, a mischievous glint seen clearly in his eyes.

There was an instant feeling of dread in the pit of John's stomach, but he chose to ignore it and plunged fearlessly ahead.

"And what would the conditions be, Sherlock?" he asked, trying to look nonchalant.

"I'm willing to eat everything you want me to, while you're trying to prove me wrong. But if you fail, I'll get to kiss you in front of the Yarders."

'That's it, he's gone absolutely bonkers,' one part of John's mind screamed.

But the other...

It took a few moments for John to finally make his decision, but once it was made, the good doctor locked his eyes with his recently acquired, mischievously grinning sweetheart determinedly.

"Count me in."


	2. A Conspiracy

**Okay, this chapter is Mystrade-centered; but don't worry, the boys will be back in the next one!**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

**Beta: Pilikia18**

If two month ago somebody told Gregory Lestrade that soon he'll become quite fond of someone whose surname will be Holmes, the DI would have called that person crazy and then laughed right into their face.

Well, technically he sort of met Mycroft five years ago, when Sherlock turned up on Lestrade's crime scene for the first time. The younger man was sarcastic and condescending, had managed to offend everyone in Lestrade's team in two minutes flat and the DI, absolutely livid, told the lanky stranger to get lost. The dark-haired man smirked, stared him down and left, shoving his business card into Lestrade's hand.

"Your people are blind idiots, Detective Inspector," the annoying intruder said haughtily. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and I expect you to call me within the next 24 hours."

Lestrade, not dignifying that with the response, simply followed the tall figure with his eyes, shaking his head slightly, and went back to work.

An hour later his mobile rang and when he took the call, a posh sounding voice of an anonymous caller advised him to accept Sherlock Holmes' proposal of help.

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" the DI asked with irritation. "I have a team of professionals to work with, and I seriously doubt that Sherlock Holmes knows more than they already do."

"Then it wouldn't be a problem to simply give him a chance, would it? Spare him five minutes of your time, Detective Inspector, and after that do as you think fit".

"Why do you care?" Lestrade enquired curiously.

There was a short huff of breath on the other end of the line. "I have my reasons. Good evening, Detective Inspector".

The connection was terminated, leaving Greg thoughtfully staring at his phone. His team was one step away from solving the case; there were just a few minor details that didn't fit into the whole picture. It was doubtful that Sherlock Holmes knew more than Lestrade's people, but a quiet voice in the DI's head whispered that he had nothing to lose and therefore it was safe to give that strange young man a chance.

So he did, and Sherlock Holmes managed to solve the case in twenty seconds flat and wandered off, leaving Lestrade to stare after him in astonishment.

"Text me if you have something interesting, Detective Inspector," the dark-haired man called out, not bothering to turn around. "But do be creative, I dislike wasting my time on trifles."

He was gone before Lestrade could think about his reply, and the DI smiled briefly, watching as the members of his team drifted together to discuss the strange event they just witnessed. He gave them a few moments and then quickly ended the gathering, ordering everyone to return to their respective tasks. He noticed a few curious glances were sent his way, but nobody dared to say anything. Which was good for now, because during those few moments he made a decision to get Sherlock Holmes involved in Scotland Yard's investigations occasionally – the more so because it did say 'Consulting Detective' on his business card.

That was the beginning of Lestrade and Sherlock's strange relationship; although the DI often found it difficult to find the right description for it. It certainly wasn't friendship – Sherlock always kept his distance and was too self-centred for that.

But there were moments when Sherlock let his guard down, allowing his real self to break through. It didn't last long, but it was enough for Lestrade to begin realising what's hidden behind that sparkling facade: an incredibly brilliant, but absolutely lonely man, so desperate to prove himself cleverer than the rest of the humanity in order to compensate his otherworldliness.

And there was another thing: that first anonymous call, the smooth voice, the sense of being constantly watched over ever since.

At some point later Sherlock OD'd in his rented flat and Lestrade barely had time to get the young fool to a hospital. He sat in the waiting room when someone approached him: a steely-eyed man in an expensive three-piece dark suit, carrying an umbrella.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector," the stranger said pleasantly. "Am I right in assuming it was you who brought my brother here?"

It took less than two seconds for Lestrade to recognise that voice. "Your brother?"

The dark-suited man pulled a card out of his pocket. "Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock is..."

"The younger, I get it. But let me ask you something: if you're his brother, how come that I've never heard about you?"

There was a brief flicker of emotion in that cold gaze – so fleeting that Lestrade actually doubted that he saw it – and then the imperturbable mask was back again, and the older Holmes raised his eyebrow slightly. "Bravo, Detective Inspector, but it's none of your concern. What's the prognosis?"

Mycroft Holmes was one of the men who literally ruled the world, but unfortunately, Greg Lestrade was one of those who didn't like it when his questions were left unanswered. So he fearlessly plunged ahead, answering Mycroft's question with his own.

"Considering that you're his brother, you should know exactly what his prognosis is, shouldn't you?"

Gazes locked and held, the two men silently battled for dominance; neither of them willing to give in just yet.

It was Mycroft who broke the stalemate with a slight twitch of his lips. "Quite impressive, Detective Inspector."

It certainly wasn't an admission of a defeat, just acknowledgement of respect; and Greg Lestrade was wise enough to recognise that. "Thank you, Mister Holmes. As for Sherlock's condition – it's relatively fine. A good detox program – and he'll be as good as new."

"Agreed. Thank you for taking care of him, Detective Inspector. I'll see to the rest."

"Sure thing," Lestrade nodded. "But can I ask you about something, though?"

The older Holmes narrowed his eyes slightly, scrutinising the DI, and then, as if reading the DI's mind, proceeded to answer the unasked question. "Sometimes. Sherlock's main problem is that he rarely finds something worthy his attention. Hence his not so rational attempts to, shall we say, quench the thirst."

"And taking into account that I had found out you're his brother, you're not being too successful in helping him to get rid of that problem, I gather?"

The DI was clearly able to give back as good as he got, and the dark-suited man clicked his tongue in obvious approval. "Not bad, Detective Inspector. It's good to see that I wasn't mistaken on your account."

Surprised by the other man's words, Lestrade frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

Mycroft Holmes smiled slightly. "Do you have time for a cup of tea, Inspector?"

"Of course, but..."

"Excellent. Shall we?"

* * *

><p>That was the beginning of Mycroft and Greg's relationship, which gradually became a close one. Mycroft Holmes was the British Government himself, but Greg Lestrade wasn't as simple as it seemed. He loved poetry, could appreciate a good glass of vine and, as Mycroft discovered quite soon, was an excellent cook.<p>

But nevertheless, the two men managed to keep their affair secret; well, at least until recent events in John and Sherlock's life. When Mycroft saw the tape from the hospital, his eyes sparked with mischief, and Greg couldn't help grinning – the older Holmes was definitely up to something interesting, which involved the duo from Baker Street and therefore promised to be quite fun.

"So?" he enquired, placing two cups of tea on the table.

"They are perfect for each other, but my dearest brother is too stubborn to admit it. And I have a perfect way to correct this vexatious mistake. But for that I would need your help, Gregory."

"You can always count on me, Mycroft, you know that. So what's the plan?"

It took Mycroft less than two minutes to explain, and when he finished, Greg was chuckling quietly.

"You're a dangerous man, Mycroft Holmes," the silver-haired man murmured, beaming at his significant other. "But that's exactly why I love you. So, count me in."

Mycroft smiled, leaned forward and sealed their agreement with a tender kiss.

"I didn't doubt it, Gregory."


	3. Home Sweet Home

**The boys are back in this chapter, as I promised! Enjoy!**

**Beta: Pilikia18  
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It was good to be back, John thought, stepping out of the cab onto the pavement. Five steps, only five steps separated him from the familiar front door, and he took them eagerly, crossing the distance and then turning to look at Sherlock who still remained near the curb, watching him intently. When their eyes met, a small smile tugged at the dark-haired man's lips and he tilted his head, raising his right arm with John's duffel bag clutched in it and swinging the bag slightly.

"It's not like you to be so careless about your things, John," Sherlock said, his voice warm and unusually soft.

John, visibly touched by Sherlock's attitude, answered with an equally warm smile. "Well, then it's a good thing that I've got you, isn't it? Oh, and by the way, could you hurry up with the key? I'm a bit tired; all these day of lying around must be taking their toll."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, slung a strap of the bag over his right shoulder and crossed the distance between them, pulling the key out of his jacket's pocket. His gaze swept over his friend's figure, noting the changes: a loss of weight, a paleness of skin, a labored breathing. John was still recovering from the chest wound and obviously feeling weak; Sherlock could see it despite all the efforts John was putting into his usual 'Don't worry, I'm absolutely fine' façade. So, after a brief hesitation, the younger man reached out and, carefully slipping an arm around his friend's shoulders, drew him closer.

John, a bit surprised by this turn of events, stiffened slightly and tried to pull away. "Sherlock?"

The detective prevented his attempt by tightening his half-embrace. "Shhh, John, it's okay. I'm just taking care of you as your partner. Partners are supposed to do this, aren't they?"

John, who clearly wasn't expecting to hear such words from his flatmate, stopped struggling and relaxed a little. "Yes, I suppose. But… Sorry, I guess I didn't expect…"

"Me acting like this?" Sherlock finished, sliding the key into the lock. "John, you should have known by now that I take all my decisions seriously. Remember our conversation not too long ago? As I recall, we agreed to go forth with our relationship. Therefore, I did some research…"

John, who was gradually starting to lean into him in search of support, gave a quiet chuckle. "Yes, I definitely should have known. It's so like you to conduct a research in a sphere, where people usually are supposed to ACT on their feelings instead of STUDYING them. But nevertheless, I must admit you're making quite a progress with the 'taking care' thing. Speaking of which: I think it would be marvelous to finally get inside, don't you agree?"

Sherlock, too busy with sorting out the new information his own body was providing, took a few moments to realise what John was saying. "Oh, of course," turning the key, he pushed the door open and carefully stepped through the door, pulling John along. "Do you need my help with getting upstairs?"

"I'm not sure", the doctor admitted, pulling away with some regret. "Let's see how it goes. I hope I can manage, but I don't mind you staying near. Just in case".

"As you wish", Sherlock let him go and took a step back, leaning casually against the wall. "I don't want to crowd you, so I'm going to remain here. Call me if you need me".

John nodded, grateful for his partner's understanding, and slowly pulled off his jacket. As he expected, the movement brought a flash of pain from his wound, and John gritted his teeth, trying to overcome it.

Sherlock, noticing his expression, automatically took a step forward, ready to support him once again, but John waved him away, hanging his jacket on the accustomed hook near the stairs.

"It's alright, Sherlock. Chest wounds take quite a long time to heal. And that, by the way, means I won't be able to chase you across London for the next month or two", John remarked, placing his hand on the banister and beginning his ascent.

Sherlock moved closer to the stairs, hovering behind his friend's back. "I'm aware of that. I spoke with your physician right before your discharge. And I intend to make sure you'll follow his recommendations to the letter".

John, who by this time climbed the first flight of the stairs, chuckled breathlessly. "That's rich, coming from you. I bet if you were in my place, you would fight tooth and nail if I had said these exact words".

Sherlock scaled the steps two at a time and stopped beside his friend. "That was before, John. Now we're together, and everything is going to change".

The doctor turned to look at him, raising his eyebrows. "Yes, we are, and yes, it is. But are you sure you REALLY want this? Because, to tell the truth, I feel like I forced you into this relationship with all that… flower history. I'm not going to deny that I have feelings for you, but what about you?"

Sherlock glanced away and started nipping at his lower lip thoughtfully. John gripped the banister with both hands, leaning on it for support, and watched Sherlock with patient understanding. A few moments later the detective finally met his gaze and cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "John… I…"

John shook his head. "Sorry, Sherlock, I shouldn't have asked. I know you are determined to make this whole relationship thing work, but it might take some time for you to adjust to the idea. And besides, we certainly shouldn't have this conversation on the stairs".

The detective, visibly relieved to hear that, nodded his head. "You're right, we can discuss this later. How are you feeling?"

"Tired", the doctor confessed earnestly. "And I could use your help with getting upstairs. I'm going to take a nap – an hour tops".

"Sure", Sherlock took a step forward and waited for John to place his arm around his shoulders then slid his own around his partner's waist. "Let's get you into your room".

They were in the middle of the second flight of stair, when the door of their landlady's flat opened, and she appeared in the hall.

"Sherlock, what are you…" she began, then noticed them together, "Oh, John, you're back! How wonderful! Sherlock, of course, told me yesterday that you're returning today, but he hadn't said, when… How are you feeling?"

"Not bad, Mrs Hudson. A little bit tired, but that's normal. Don't worry, everything's fine", John smiled at her and sagged slightly against Sherlock. The younger man looked at him with concern and tightened his arm on John's waist.

"That's good to hear, honey", the landlady responded with a warm smile. "I guess we can celebrate your return, then. I'll bake an apple crumble, your favourite", she hurried back to her flat, but Sherlock immediately called after her, putting his other arm around John, who started to lean on him heavily.

"Maybe in the evening, Mrs Hudson. John not just 'a little bit tired', he's practically exhausted, and needs a few hours of sleep. So if you can postpone the cake till…" he glanced at his watch briefly, "… seven, we'll be happy to invite you to our evening tea".

John rolled his eyes at this display of Sherlock's lack of courtesy. "Sherlock! Manners!"

Mrs Hudson chuckled with a delighted glee. "Don't worry, John, I'm actually happy that he's finally back to his old self. When you were in the hospital, he was so… unusually quiet and… sad… I started to worry".

John straightened a little and looked at Sherlock in surprise. The dark-haired man averted his eyes, obviously embarrassed. "Well, that's interesting news", the doctor used his other arm to pull his suddenly endearingly shy looking companion closer. "But now I'm back, and he has no reason to worry anymore. As he already said, I'm going to sleep a few hours, and then we'll be happy to join you for the evening tea".

"Sleep well, darling", the landlady said warmly. "We'll decide in the evening, where we are going to drink our tea".

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson", Sherlock said hurriedly, beginning to pull John further upstairs. "See you later!"

John was pretty much ready to strangle his impossible significant one – but he had absolutely no strength left, so he had no choice but to allow Sherlock to lead him the rest of the way to his bedroom and even tuck him in.

"Don't think you're going to get away with it so simply, Sherlock Holmes!" he mumbled drowsily when Sherlock pulled the blanket over him. "This conversation isn't finished!"

"As you wish, my dear John", came a tenderly whispered reply, and John drifted into sleep in a mid-thought…

* * *

><p>When he finally emerged in the living room in the evening, Sherlock was telling Mrs Hudson about the recently finished case; but he stopped mid-sentence the moment he saw the still sleepy John in the doorway. Surprised at his silence, the landlady followed his gaze and broke into a happy smile when her eyes landed on John's figure.<p>

"You're finally awake, dear!" she said tenderly. "Come on, have a seat! I brought the crumble, as I promised, and Sherlock was waiting for you to wake up, so he could start brewing the tea".

John, surprised once again, looked at Sherlock; Sherlock wordlessly patted the sofa and got up, heading into the kitchen. The doctor tracked his movements with a thoughtful smile, then crossed the room and sat down on the sofa. Something new was evidently emerging in Sherlock's personality – something unexpected, something unusual – but, at the same time that something was giving John a warm and comfortable feeling, which he was beginning to associate with the most important word in his life.

After all these lonely years, he finally found his home.

He found his home with a man who was currently carrying a tea tray back to the living room and answering his wide-eyed wondering look with a slight quirk of his lips and a twinkle in his amazing eyes.

His home was with Sherlock, and John found himself smiling happily in return.

He was home. The rest of the world could wait. Along with the bet which, as John was beginning to feel, he absolutely wouldn't have minded losing.


	4. Tea is the Key

The sunlight, slithering through loosely drawn curtains, finally reached the pillow on John's bed, and the doctor stirred slightly, not willing to fight against the still tangible pull of sleep. They went to bed quite late, way past midnight, and Sherlock behaved as a true gentleman, first escorting their landlady to the door of her flat, and then helping his flatmate to get upstairs. When they stopped in front of the door to John's bedroom, the blond doctor hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do next, but Sherlock saved the situation by a slightly awkward hug, and then, hurriedly wishing his friend goodnight, beat a fast retreat towards his own room downstairs.

John wasn't surprised by that at all: although Sherlock declared his willingness to proceed with their newly formed relationship, he still wasn't the kind of a man that would rush headlong into something without carefully thinking it through first. The doctor was absolutely fine with that: any kind of relationship was agreeable as long as they stayed together. Well, except the one where they would become archenemies, of course.

But, however willing John was to proceed with their relationship, knowing how to handle it was an entirely different matter, especially considering the fact of Sherlock being his significant other. John always regarded his friend as an extraordinary person, as a one of a kind, and that, for the good doctor, entailed the ability to take everything in stride. That's why John wasn't really surprised by Sherlock's awkwardness. Luckily, the good doctor had a very useful trait – his patience was almost infinite. Of course, with Sherlock involved, all bets were off, but so far John felt he managed to avoid serious problems by following the golden rule to tread carefully. Which meant that right now all he had to do is to wait for Sherlock to make his next move.

That, of course, absolutely didn't mean neglecting his usual needs, so John took his time before getting out of bed: rolled from side to side a couple of times, stretched and flexed his muscles and even did two or three exercises – just to warm up for the upcoming day. Soon he felt ready to face the world (and his flatmate), so the blond doctor moved to the edge of the bed and sat up, lowering his legs onto the floor.

As soon as he did that, there was a knock on the door – brief and seemingly hesitant. It couldn't have been anyone but Sherlock, and judging by the sound, the great detective right now hasn't felt sure at all. Therefore, John had no choice but to initiate the aforementioned next step himself, which he immediately did.

"Sherlock, is that you?" he called out warmly. "Come in, the door isn't locked."

"I know it isn't," came the immediate reply. "I just need to..," the sound of something bumping against the door, followed by a moment of silence. "Okay, this is obviously not the right way to do it."

"Do what?" enquired John, intrigued by Sherlock's cryptic words.

There was no answer, but a few seconds later the door opened, revealing John's flatmate with a breakfast tray.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said simply, ignoring John's astonished look and strolling towards the bed. "I brought you breakfast."

"I can see that," the doctor reached for his dressing gown, which he left on the back of the chair near the bed yesterday. Pulling it on, he stood up and tied the sash. "But I feel fine and can go downstairs for breakfast, Sherlock; there's no need to mollycoddle me."

The detective finally reached the bed and deftly sidestepped John in order to place the tray on the bedside table, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I have no intention to 'mollycoddle' you, as you so helpfully put out. I'm just fulfilling my duties as your life partner. And besides, Mycroft called me half an hour ago, so we may or may not have a case in the foreseeable future. I know you're still recovering, but I would probably need you expertise at some point. I'll do everything to keep you safe, don't worry."

The blond doctor shook his head with a quiet chuckle. "My gosh, this whole relationship really has your wires crossed a bit, hasn't it? You sound like Mycroft, and this usually happens when you don't know how to tackle the problem at hand. So, take my advice: WE are NOT a problem, so just relax and take it one step at a time, okay?"

Sherlock, who, at the moment his brother's name was mentioned, pulled a face as if he had swallowed a whole lemon, quickly regained his imperturbable expression. "Sorry for raining on your parade, but you clearly reading too much into a simple attempt of taking care. Or," his face softened slightly, "perhaps you've never had a breakfast brought to your bed by someone who was glad they had such an opportunity?"

"If you're talking about relationship, then I had a fair share of them, I can assure you," John turned slightly and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, causing the dark-haired man to turn and look at him with curiosity. "What I'm trying to say is that you don't need to go all out in order to please me. Just be yourself. And I won't mind having breakfast with you in the kitchen, so how about moving in there?"

The taller man, who was clearly on a verge of denying his eagerness to please, suddenly broke into a wide smile and shook his head. "Amazing," he said softly. "Just when I think I have you figured out, you somehow manage to throw me off balance. Glad to know I wasn't mistaken about you when we first met," the detective turned away and picked the tray up. "Kitchen it is, then."

"Sure," the doctor gestured towards the still open door. "Lead the way. And as for your previous statement – wasn't mistaken about what, exactly?"

Sherlock turned and walked out of the room, expecting John to follow him; needless to say, he wasn't disappointed – the good doctor accompanied him readily, causing a small smile to appear on the detective's face. "I believe this process between two persons is called 'clicking with each other'. I knew we could be useful to each other and decided to give it a go. You know perfectly well that I never guess, so here we are, still together and apparently progressing further in our relationship. Did I answer your question?"

"Exhaustively," by that moment they stepped into the kitchen, and John went straight to the table, glancing at the tray as he passed Sherlock. "Did you make it all yourself?"

"Are you trying to provoke me, John?" as usual, the detective traded question for question. "If so, then I'm certainly going to disappoint you with my answer. No, I didn't, but I had help from a true professional. Except for tea – I brewed it myself. Don't worry, it's absolutely safe," he added, noticing a shadow of a doubt in his friend's eyes.

"Oh, I don't think you're deliberately trying to poison me," John replied promptly. "I'm just surprised, that's all."

"That is expected, I suppose," Sherlock finally placed the tray on the kitchen table and did a quick job of putting its contents onto John's preferred side. "You need time to adjust, that's understandable. So how about having breakfast now and talking later? Provided we won't be interrupted by Mycroft's summons, of course."

As if on cue, Sherlock's mobile chose this exact moment to announce his brother's call via solemn sounds of British anthem.

"Speak of the devil," the dark-haired man commented, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "We spent too much time talking; now you're probably going to eat your breakfast alone."

"I can go with you, if you want," the blond doctor offered. "We can eat somewhere in the city afterwards."

Sherlock shook his head negatively and, pressing the button on his phone, brought it to his ear. "Hello, Mycroft. What's happened? … Yes, he is fine, thanks for asking… No, I don't think so… Yes, I'm sure… Is it really necessary?... Oddly enough, no… Well, if you insist… I seriously doubt it, but it's not going to stop you, isn't it? … Fine, where and when? … Okay, see you in ten minutes," the detective terminated the connection and, noticing his friend's questioning gaze, wrinkled his nose slightly. "Mycroft needs to see me tete-a-tete. He's on his way here, and asked me to wait for him outside."

"Did he say why?" John asked simply, not in the mood to beat around the bush.

Sherlock's lips curved into a wry grin. "You know full well that Mycroft always has a solid reason for his actions. One he usually prefers to keep to himself until the last possible moment. Therefore, I can't give an answer to your question before talking to him first."

"Fair enough," John shrugged his shoulders and reached for the toast. "I hope it won't take long, because I was kind of hoping we would spend this day together."

"Don't worry, we will," Sherlock went into the living room and tugged his coat off the hook on the door. "I'll try to sort things out with Mycroft as soon as I can."

"Okay," the doctor said simply, starting to slather jam on his toast. "See you soon, then?"

"Hopefully," the detective pulled the coat on and tied the scarf around his neck. "Don't hesitate to call if you need me."

"Don't worry, I'm perfectly able to take care of myself," John replied, and a second later, noticing Sherlock's frown, added immediately. "But of course it's better to have you nearby in case of emergency."

"Not exactly inspiring, John," Sherlock pulled his gloves on and turned towards the stairs. "Especially considering what you said previously. If this is your way of 'not pressuring' me, it's ineffective."

"Just what I expected," John rolled his eyes, not pausing in his preparations. "Go, Sherlock. We'll talk after your return."

Despite the clear brush-off, the dark-haired man responded with a toothy grin. "Would you ever learn, John? It's a textbook exercise, and you fall for it every time."

John's answer hit the wall near his head, splattering his hair with small blobs of cherry jam. The detective, didn't expecting the small missile to do such substantial damage, froze for a few seconds and then shot a withering look in his attacker's direction.

"Bravo, John," his voice was practically dripping with sarcasm. "Mycroft would be immensely pleased. Such a chance to have a good laugh at my expense. Congratulations."

"Tit for tat, Sherlock," the doctor leaned back in his chair, a triumphant grin tugging at his lips. "And besides, you started this, not me."

Huffing in irritation, Sherlock brushed off as much jam as possible, and thundered down the stairs towards the front door. But John wasn't finished.

"Bon voyage, mon ami," he called loudly and gave a small giggle when the front door was pointedly slammed shut.

* * *

><p>The only indication of Mycroft's amusement at the sight of his brother was a slight quirk of an eyebrow. Shooting his sibling a warning glance, the younger Holmes climbed into the black car and, making himself comfortable on the seat beside Mycroft, reached to close the car door. The politician looked at the driver via the rear view mirror, giving a brief nod, and the car set off in the direction familiar to both brothers.<p>

Diogenes club, which meant Mycroft regarded the upcoming conversation as significant. Sherlock, of course, saw it as a total waste of time, but since there was no other effective way out of this situation, he chose to simply resign himself to whatever was going to happen next.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, it wouldn't take more than ten minutes of your precious time," Mycroft said calmly, as if reading his brother's mind. "After that I arrange for your immediate return to Baker Street."

"The best way of not wasting my precious time as you kindly put it, brother dear, was to leave me with John at Baker Street," the younger Holmes responded, pointedly keeping his gaze fixed on changing sights behind the car window.

"Reasonable," the older Holmes agreed. "Unfortunately, a matter which I have a necessity to discuss with you, has arisen quite recently, and therefore I arranged our meeting on a neutral territory."

Sherlock gave a longsuffering sigh and indicated his intention to finish the conversation by muttering "Fine" and leaning back with his eyes closed and arms crossed on his chest. Using this opportunity, Mycroft allowed a small smile to grace his lips. Neither he nor Sherlock would ever admit enjoying those rounds of verbal sparring, but they were amongst things the Holmes brothers regarded as their family trademark.

Upon arriving at their destination, they were immediately led into a private room at the back of the club, where a tea table was already served. Seeing that, Sherlock smirked and went straight to the armchair, flopping down into it unceremoniously.

"So, what were you going to discuss with me?" he asked, leaning forward and pouring some tea into the cup.

Mycroft smiled sweetly, but that seemingly innocent smile triggered Sherlock's internal alarm: his brother was up to something, and Sherlock was almost sure he won't like it.

"Oh, nothing earth-shattering, really," the older Holmes slowly walked towards the armchair across of his brother's and sat down. "Just a matter of your little bet with John."

The younger man froze with a teacup half-way to his mouth. A moment later he regained control and leaned back, raising an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

Mycroft reached to prepare his own cup of tea. "No need to be so dramatic, dear brother. I hope you don't think Greg's behaviour was accidental. Otherwise, I would be very disappointed."

Sherlock made quite a show out of taking a sip of his tea. "Get to the point, Mycroft."

"As you wish," the older Holmes added sugar in his tea and started stirring it slowly. "The reason why I have brought you here is that while I have no objections against your little bet with John, I need to warn you that winning it wasn't going to be an easy task."

"I didn't doubt it, Mycroft," Sherlock finished his cup and stood up. "Call the car; I'm going back to Baker Street."

"The car is near the entrance, Sherlock, and the driver is aware of his task. You just need to ask him to take you home," Mycroft tasted his tea and leaned back with a satisfied expression.

"Fine," Sherlock crossed the room and stopped near the door. "I was right, was I?"

Mycroft took a sip of tea and smiled slightly before answering. "Absolutely, Sherlock."

"How long?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not in the slightest," Sherlock opened the door. "But… congratulations, I guess. You made the right choice, brother dear."

"Thank you, little brother. And good luck with your bet," Mycroft put his cup down and reached for his briefcase.

Sherlock snorted quietly and left the room, completely missing a sparkle of mischief in Mycroft's usually calm and controlled gaze…

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile in Baker Street 221B…<em>

When the front door closed behind Sherlock, John shook his head and reached for another toast. Usually the good doctor managed to keep his urge to throttle his insufferable flatmate in check, but there were moments when his control slipped; now definitely was one of them.

Fortunately, their friendship was solid enough to endure such occurrences, although John once again swore to himself not to tempt fate.

Besides, in front of him on the table stood another embodiment of a reason to continue being Sherlock's friend – perhaps a bit selfish, but John was only human, after all.

Quickly preparing another toast with jam, John took the teapot and carefully poured a fragrant liquid into his cup. Sherlock bothered to brew it – and wasn't that the proof of him taking their new relationship seriously? Granted, one occurrence didn't mean that his newly acquired boyfriend was going to always act in the same manner, but a man could hope, after all…

His thoughts were interrupted by a doorbell and, not willing to give Mrs. Hudson any trouble with welcoming an unexpected guest into the house – she was the one who helped Sherlock to prepare this breakfast, John was pretty sure about that, - he stood up and quickly made his way downstairs, calling for their landlady 'not to worry about the visitor'. She didn't respond, but she also didn't appear in the hall, so probably she wasn't at home at the moment, after all. That suited John just fine.

When the doctor got to the door, he was already certain this wasn't Sherlock – he knew his friend long enough to recognise the signs of interest. The younger man was intrigued by his brother's request – intrigued enough to agree with Mycroft's conditions for this meeting. So it was highly doubtful he would've returned so soon.

Since John was near the door, there was no point in guessing; all he had to do is open it.

Which he did.

Holding the paper bag in his hands, on the steps to their house stood nobody else but Greg Lestrade.

"Good morning, John," the DI said amiably, seeing the expression of surprise on the doctor's face. "Just happened to be nearby and decided to check on you. How are you feeling?"

Quickly regaining control, the ex-army medic returned the smile and took a step back, motioning for Lestrade to go inside the house. "Fine, actually. I was just going to have breakfast. Care to join me, Greg?"

As if expecting this invitation, the DI brandished his paper bag. "With pleasure. And isn't it lucky that I have something for this occasion?"

John tilted his head to the side. "Actually, Greg, it's a bit suspicious."

The DI's smile vanished almost instantly. "Sherlock told you something, didn't he? Back then, in the hospital. Am I right?"

Smiling, John waved his arm towards the stairs. "Why don't we go upstairs, Greg? Because I don't think the hall is the best place for such conversation."

Lestrade relaxed visibly. "You're right," he shook his head slightly. "Sorry for overreacting, but I had a hell of a morning."

"What happened?" The doctor started moving in the direction of the stairs, and the DI automatically followed. "Troubles at work?"

"If only," Greg chuckled slightly. "I didn't even manage to get there. My car got bumped by my new neighbor's. Nothing serious, though: just a few dents. But I shamelessly used this accident as an excuse to check on you."

"Wise decision," John commented, already half-way towards their kitchen. "Especially considering the fact that I have tea which was brewed by Sherlock."

"Really?" the DI hastened to catch up with the doctor almost at the top of the stairs. "And is it safe? Sherlock usually tends to experiment a lot, and sometimes his results aren't so harmless."

"Don't I know it!" John chuckled, leading Greg to the kitchen. "Usually I'm his test subject at home, although he always ensures I remain alive in the end of each experiment."

"Nice of him," Lestrade commented sarcastically. By that time they reached the kitchen table, and the DI placed his paper bag on the corner. "Sometimes I start wondering if Donovan's right. How you can stand him?"

"I could ask you the same," John pulled the chair for Greg to sit, and went to the cupboard for the second cup. "We're in a sort of similar positions after all, don't you think?"

Lestrade, who by that moment already sat down and started to transfer scones from the bag onto the empty plate, paused slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

John returned to the table with the cup for Greg and started pouring tea into it. "I'm just continuing the conversation that we started in the hall. And, answering your question: yes, Sherlock DID tell me something, and frankly, I'm still unsure what to do about it," filling his guest's cup, the doctor sat down and looked straight into the DI's eyes.

To give Greg credit, he didn't even bat an eyelid. "And that 'something' would be..," he did a meaningful pause, looking at John in enquiry.

The ex-army medic decided not to beat about the bush. "He told me you're romantically involved with his brother."

Lestrade didn't respond right away: he spent a minute or so calmly taking a sip of his tea and placing his cup back on the saucer. After that he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms on his chest. "Have I ever given you a reason to suspect me of being interested in men, John?" he asked, not at all looking surprised.

"Never," the doctor admitted earnestly.

The DI raised one eyebrow. "And yet you have suddenly decided it can be so. Why? Only because Sherlock dropped some hints?"

"They weren't exactly hints, you know," John objected. "More like full-blown deductions. Your deodorant, those scones… It sounded quite plausible."

"Of course it did," Greg grinned. "I bet he went even further."

John looked away. "Yes, but I'd rather not to discuss that."

The DI opened his mouth to comment on that, but was suddenly interrupted by a loud chirping. Frowning, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and looking at the screen briefly, stood up. "Seems like my rest is over – they need me at the Yard. Finish your breakfast and don't worry about walking me out. As for my involvement with Sherlock's brother – I won't deny I know him, but our connection is purely Sherlock-oriented. He just interested in his younger brother's protection."

Lestrade looked and sounded sincere, and John smiled at him apologetically. "Sorry for doubting you, Greg. But Sherlock… you know how persuasive he can get if he needs to."

"I know, John. Take care and hope to see you soon," with that, Greg disappeared from the kitchen.

"Bye, Greg!" the doctor called out just before he heard the front door open and close with Lestrade's 'See you!' in return.

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock was home, leading John out of the kitchen and towards the sofa in their living room. He wasn't forthcoming about his meeting with Mycroft, and the doctor chose not to press him for the details.

Needless to say, John kept the information about his conversation with Greg to himself. Something in Lestrade's words triggered an alarm at the back of the doctor's mind, but he decided to let it go for now.

Especially considering the fact that Sherlock was now sort of cuddled against his side with his arm half-curved around John's shoulders – a bit stiffly, perhaps, but John was okay with that. The great detective was commenting some movie they appeared to be watching. Lulled by the sound of his deep voice, the doctor drifted off into a restful sleep.

The dark-haired man carefully laid his drowsy partner on the sofa, putting a pillow under his head and covering him with a blanket.

Then he was out of the flat and flagging down a cab. Mycroft did his job perfectly, and now Sherlock was hell bent on finding the truth.

Sherlock Holmes was a genius, but even geniuses are incapable of understanding the simplest of facts.

Sometimes, to solve a mystery you just need to look no further than your own sofa.

**A/N: Okay, my dear readers, I have a question for you. starting from the next chapter, John is going to have fun fulfilling his side of the bet. So now I'm looking for prompts. What food John definitely should (or absolutely shouldn't) prepare for Sherlock? Tell me what you think! :)**


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